


The Personal Assistant's Tale

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cupid Anthea, Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Matchmaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 08:09:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16343069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: Mycroft and Greg through Anthea's eyes--and what she does to "assist" her boss.





	The Personal Assistant's Tale

The woman who chose to be known as “Anthea” watched them, never sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. Never sure, frankly, if they knew, either. They were such sweet, stodgy fellows, both conservative in their chosen lives.

Mycroft was the quintessential quiet queen: elegant, reserved, focused on accepting a life of solitude broken only by his uneasy but cherished family ties, and by a scant few associates who might, in a pinch, be called friends. He wore his suits with dignity, swung his umbrella with panache, held his head up no matter what—even when Sherlock shamed him before the world. He clung to discipline like most people cling to hope.

Greg Lestrade was no less solitary, though less obvious about it. Not Spock, she thought, but broken McCoy, divorced and alone, but unable to bear the silences the way Mycroft did. He wasn’t precisely an extrovert—there was an internal silence that marked him out, set him off from his fellows. But he needed the companionship of the herd around him: a city boy hungering for the murmur of the streets, the sweaty, laughing roar of a busy pub, the chatter of a footie-team, the companionship of his Met investigative team. It was easy to miss the solitude when he wrapped his social network around him, cocooning among the warm bodies and flashing eyes and the constant hum of voices. Yet he was as quiet, as reserved, as private as Mycroft, when you looked closely. He had hidden thoughts, hidden feelings, hidden depths that no one saw until Mycroft saw them.

They saw each other. She could see them, shy-eyed, hesitant, clumsy in their shared innocence. Two men with very little experience of seeing and being seen, with very little idea how to even think about that, much less how to act on it.

Both, too, lived within the rules—so very unlike Sherlock. They knew and respected the rules of law, of their respective agencies, of their divisions. Of society. Of gender. Each was, in his own way, a “respectable man.” They knew how to be respectable—but relationships exist outside the very dimension of respectability.

She could see them struggle, sometimes. The body language, the eyes, the tight crimp of their lips would announce to anyone but themselves that they longed to reach across empty space and touch, sooth, caress, comfort, kiss. There they would be, together in uneasy yearning, neither sure of the other’s desire, fidgeting together, two large, lovable, ungainly men.

If they had been women she’d have locked them in a room with seven sappy rom-coms and a quart or two of ice cream. She’d have tricked them into a shared stay at a day-spa, undercover, required to act like besties. She’d have put them in charge of throwing someone a birthday party or a baby shower or anything that made them work and laugh and get silly together. But they were men…

They were very good at being men, which, in her opinion, was often a problem. Men who were good at being men did not know how to stop, how to change modes, how to let go of the performance of their roles as respectable owners of well-contained, mannerly penises and testicles. It was enough to put a crimp in anyone’s social life, in her opinion. So difficult to navigate all the silly rules of dignified manhood, “ _pur et sans reproche_.”

She was not sure they even let themselves know, clear and simple and without varnish, that they wanted each other—as dearest, most intimate friends, if not as lovers. It left them too open, too fragile, too naked before the world.

She lost sleep over it. She was Mycroft’s first line of defense, assigned to be his perfect ally—a “womanly” job, but one so shot through with manly challenges that she felt in no way reduced or confined in the role. Not when she was the one with the hidden pistol strapped to her thigh. Not when she was the one to tell Mycroft, with her eyes cold and her spine straight, that there was no longer room for compassion or mercy—an enemy had to die. But, still, she was also guardian of his heart, and even his soul, and she knew he was too lonely—he was slowly freezing, trapped in endless emotional winter. The Iceman. Antarctica. At the very least he needed a few amusing penguins and cavorting seals to lighten the burden of ice on his heart. Lestrade, she thought, laughing to herself, would make a splendid penguin—or a charming, liquid-eyed seal, the cuddle-puppy of the sea.

And so she determined to do what they could not. It was a little thing—a push. A nudge. A carefully planned non-event. But they did work together. They had official roles to play, and thanks to Sherlock, John, and baby Rosamund, they had unofficial roles. It wasn’t that hard to create pretexts for them to meet. And she was in charge of the arrangements. She could choose a dank, empty warehouse—or a quiet little pub a bit off the beaten track, with good pub food and a convenient dart board. She could equally choose to send Mycroft’s official Jaguar a bit late. She could push just a little here, tug a little there, make time for their friendship that they themselves would not have dared make.

“You’d miss him if he were gone,” she told Mycroft, pertly, one afternoon when he whinged that for some reason his anti-terrorism rendezvous with Lestrade looked likely to take up his entire evening…and in that eternal pub. “And it’s a cozy pub. Relax. Play a few rounds of pool. The whole point is to have a contact in a way that doesn’t raise suspicion about either of you. It’s undercover, sir.”

“It’s footwork,” Mycroft grumbled. “I hate footwork.”

“At least they brew a good house ale,” she pointed out. “And the shepherd’s pie is supposed to be quite nice.”

He grunted…

“Wear your casual clothes,” she said. “That outfit with the tweed jacket and knit pull-over vest.”

“You said it made me look like an accountant.”

“But a very handsome, relaxed accountant. It’s in character for the work, sir.” It also brought out the smoky blue-green of his eyes, but she didn’t say so. When he took off the tweed jacket—IF he took off the tweed jacket—it showed the long lines of his torso, and the strength in his comparatively narrow shoulders. If he loosened up enough to play pool or throw darts, the motion of his body was clear.

She worked Lestrade, as well…

“Mr. Holmes forgets to play the role,” she said, truthfully enough. “He’s not comfortable in public. It would help if you nudged him on a bit. Even teased him—took the piss. He’s supposed to be undercover, for God’s sake.”

Lestrade grunted and scowled. “Not going to listen to me, now, is he?”

“He admires you,” she said, knowing it was true even if Mycroft refused to look at the fact. “Lure him with sugar, and keep him in line with a bit of sauce. It’s not like you haven’t got any sauce.”

“Oi!” He gave her an old-fashioned look, frowning down his nose. “Respectable p’leeceman, me. No sauce to be seen.”

“Right. Pull the other—that one has bells on.” She chuckled. “He’s quiet, Mr. Lestrade. Please—help bring him out? He needs the practice.”

And so it went—a month, two months, three, and month by month she could see the progress. Mycroft looking a bit pinker and perkier the mornings after a scheduled meet with Lestrade. Lestrade getting braver and more wicked about teasing Mycroft, even in the office in front of Mycroft’s staff. Moments of shared eye-contact: entire conversations passed without a word. Moments when they moved in sync, bodies matching tempo as they walked together down a London street, too wrapped up in conversation to notice the CCTV following their passage.

Yes, she surveilled them. Someone had to, at least in her opinion. And so she was “there” to see their first kiss, clumsy and spontaneous, initiated by neither and both, in the shadows of a car park waiting for Mycroft’s Jaguar to arrive—late, as it so often was when they had an evening meetup. She watched, awed and shivering, as they managed to synchronize their lips, lean into each other—then pull away like shying horses. She could practically hear them whicker and see flicking tails and dancing hooves as they bridled and backed.

Before she could despair of them, they settled, letting the silence stretch between them. Then Lestrade said, quietly. “Been wanting that for a bit, me. You?”

Mycroft looked at his toes, tapped his umbrella, then looked up again, a sparkle in his eyes and a small smile tipping the corners of his too-wide mouth. “Yes. Me, too.”

They studied each other, and she could see the confidence grow, and with it the understanding, dawning bright in both hearts, that they were together in this.

That they were together in everything.

She smiled, as they leaned in again, nuzzled again, like great, gentle horses. Reserve and tenderness balanced each other. They reached out, embraced, held each other’s weight. Men…two solitary, reserved men dancing the kindly dance of the paddock, of two great baroque horses becoming the dearest of friends.

Anthea smiled, and closed off the CCTV link. The rest was no one’s business but their own. She handed the office off to the night shift and caught a taxi home. The next morning she made herself go in early, and was pleased to find her instincts sound—a message awaited her from Mr. Holmes, leaving her in charge of the office for the day.

She nodded to herself, and brewed a pot of tea, taking out a few ginger nuts to reward herself. It was a job well-done, if she said so herself.


End file.
